


Pick up your balls and load up your cannon

by lanyon



Series: Bad Boy Boogie [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Pranks, Rookies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:57:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a rookie is unexpectedly called up and is in danger of becoming indispensable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pick up your balls and load up your cannon

**Author's Note:**

> +Huge thanks to Idril, Sarah and beardsley for the support.  
> +Warnings for a good-natured, innocent prank on Parse.  
> +Title from AC/DC.

Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas. 

Kent Parson should be a liability. He is a most profound asshole, who shouldn’t be allowed to curate his own social media accounts and yet he has mastered his own PR with such consummate skill that it is all the Aces’ front office staff can do to keep up.

All that is gold does not glitter except that things are particularly dazzling for Kent Parson. 

He wears shades indoors, sometimes, and he always drives too fast and apologies don’t come easy to him.

Las Vegas is still foreign territory, for him and for hockey. It’s a long way from New York, and McCarren Park and the promise of this blinding future.

In his rare introspective moments, the ones that come after long nights at home, and long nights of Jack by the bottle, he remembers what it was like to be six years old and bundled up and skating around and around. 

He was always the last kid off the ice (until he met Jack Zimmermann in Juniors but those are different memories, from a different time). 

Kent Parson’s dedication comes as a surprise, sometimes, even to those who know him. 

♠

Gabriel Charbonneau is drafted in the third round, two years after Kent Parson goes first in his draft year. 

Come in, Number Sixty-Nine. 

When he’s called up from the AHL, it’s because Zarubin is put on long-term IR for concussion. 

It’s the second game of the season and Gabriel’s watching at home, when it happens; when Zarbo’s helmetless head collides with Novak’s knee and it’s so fucking stupid that Zarbo’s going to be out for months and they can’t even blame the fucking Canucks. 

Aurelie’s sitting next to him and she elbows him hard. “They’re going to call you up,” she says. 

The next day, his phone rings. It’s the Imperial March because his sister thinks it’s hilarious to change his ringtones to the most incongruous tunes she can find.

Gabriel isn’t a pessimist but he’d resigned himself to at least a couple of years in the AHL. His hands are shaking when he puts his phone down; he can’t even remember what he said to the GM, other than the fact that he’d see him at training the next day. 

Aurelie says, “I told you so” and that’s when it sinks in.

 **gabriel charbonneau** @gcharb69 • 23m  
nhl here i come ♠

 **Las Vegas Aces** @lasvegasaces • 40m  
Welcome to the NHL, **@gcharb69**! 

♠

Kent is the biggest name in the team but that’s not why he’s captain. He’s captain because he takes hockey seriously and he takes winning seriously and, in Vegas, the house always wins. 

It helps, of course, that he won the Calder and that he’s always had his eye on the Stanley Cup. It helps that Kent Parson’s motivation is matched only by his skill. 

_Parson is a concentrated package of blond ambition who proves that size does matter: a 25-game points streak that’s only going to get longer_. 

When he arrives into the dressing room for optional skate early, it’s not out of character. He’s usually the first man in and the last man out. It’s why he’s taken aback when there’s a kid sitting there, in Zarbo’s place, looking mildly terrified, with soft brown curly hair and hands that are anything but soft as they grip a wrinkled practise shirt. 

“Oh,” says Kent. “You’re, uh, Gabriel, right? Sorry we didn’t hang out at camp, much.”

The kid -- Gabriel -- shrugs. “Hey, it’s cool. Wasn’t expecting to be here so soon.”

Sometimes, Kent Parson is an asshole. “What? You don’t think you’re good enough to be here?”

“I didn’t say that,” says Gabriel, almost sharply. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I just. It’s the dream, you know?”

Kent nods, as if he knows, as if NHL hockey has ever been anything but a certainty for him.

“You’ll do great, kid,” he says. “You got somewhere to stay?”

“Yeah, I’m at the Olafssons’ place for now? It’s okay. The children are a bit noisy but, yeah.” 

“Reckon you’ll be with us for a while. Zarbo’s gonna be out till at least February and if you don’t fully suck, we’re gonna need you on the fourth line. You might want to find somewhere a bit quieter.” Good luck in this town. Kent grins and he knows it looks a little sly (he means it to look a little sly). “I hear you can throw a punch?” 

Gabriel snorts. “It happens, you know?

Kent looks him up and down. “How tall are you, anyway?” 

“Five nine.”

Five foot nine and picking fights, and isn’t that delightful?

The rest of the team trickle in slowly and they all say hi to Gabriel. 

“Charbo in for Zarbo,” says Jeff, like he’s some kind of genius, and even though Kent rolls his eyes, it’s pretty good.

Charbo does well in practice. He’s alarmingly earnest and listens so intently to the coaching staff that Kent can feel his own eyes watering. There’s something so serious about Charbo that Kent is reminded of -- 

Well. Enough of that. Kent steals the puck from Barty and he’s got a clear run on Desi except all of a sudden, he doesn’t have the puck anymore and when he spins around, blades sending an arc of ice up behind him, he sees Charbo standing there, grinning, idly moving the puck around. 

Maybe Kent was wrong about his hands. 

They play one-on-one and the coaches are happy to let them chase each other up and down the ice until more of the guys join in, and Charbo and Kent join forces, and one-two, Kent sends a neat wrister past Desi and Charbo laughs and this kid is so fucking gleeful that Kent finds himself hoping that he’ll be good enough to stay. Sometimes, Kent forgets to enjoy hockey but Charbo’s doubled up with laughter while Barty swears up a storm of Slovak and English expletives and Kent feels his heart lift the way he didn’t expect when Zarbo went down on the ice on Monday.

Finally, Giddings calls them in to try some line combinations and it’s one of those practises when everything clicks, and there’s fierce joy in every shot and every hit and it’s going to be one of those practices that hurts but they’re playing the Aeros tomorrow, which always hurts.

When they go back to the locker room and everyone’s shedding bits of kit, Kent looks over at Charbo, who’s sitting in Zarbo’s place again. His face is flushed and there’s a horizontal red line across his forehead because of course he wears his helmet too tight and when Kent catches his eye, Charbo grins. 

“Don’t know what you’re so happy about, kid. You ain’t won nothing yet.”

Charbo blinks, tranquil and still smiling. “‘S’why I’m here, isn’t it?” 

The guys roar with approval and Sasha reaches over and ruffles his hair. “I like this kid.” 

“I’ll like him more when he puts manners on the Aeros’ fourth line tomorrow,” says Kent. 

“Sure thing, Cap,” says Charbo and he leans back, resting his head against the wall behind him and he lets his eyes close, like he’s savouring this moment of sweat and hope.

Kent feels his breath catch. Kid’s gonna get his heart broken if he doesn’t get his head out of the clouds but, for once, Kent’s not sure he’s the guy to do it.

♠

The game is ugly. There’s animosity between the Aeros and the Aces; two expansion teams with a lot to prove. This isn’t the Original Six and maybe there’s something laughable about an ice hockey team in the driest state in America but there are Battle Born banners all around the arena and it doesn’t matter that half of the spectators are out-of-towners when they’re screaming Kent Parson’s name. 

Twenty-five games becomes twenty-six when he gets an assist on Jonny De Luca’s goal. 

Gabriel Charbonneau gets an assist, too, and two penalty minutes for roughing, which is simultaneously both charming and utterly cynical. 

The Aces win, and Rick Desmond gets the shut-out and deserves to be the game’s first star. 

Afterwards, Gabriel is perplexed that anyone wants to talk to him, especially when there are players like Kent Parson and Dima Demidov in the room. 

Once the media scrum is over and they’ve all showered and listened to the physios’ advice, they go to O’Malley’s. Gabriel has to endure the ignominy of having the back of his hand stamped with a fucking shamrock even though he doesn’t really drink anyway and he’s definitely not stupid enough to drink underage, somewhere publicly, after his first NHL game. 

He’s happy to stick with soda and he’s tucked into a booth, watching his teammates in their alternate natural habitat. 

“So, what do you think?” Desi slides into the seat next to him. 

Gabriel raises his glass, touching it to Desi’s pint glass. “Hey, congrats on the shut-out.”

Desi grins. “Congrats on not sucking. Also, what the fuck was that penalty?”

Gabriel can’t help laughing. “Look, he was being a total dick to Barty for the whole game. I just wanted to give him a little nudge, you know?”

“Barty.” Desi stares at him. “Your six foot four linemate who has no trouble finding trouble. That Barty?” 

Gabriel ducks his head and Desi nudges him. “You did good, kid. You know that, right?”

“Well, I tried. I, uh.” Gabriel runs one hand through his hair. “I wanted to not suck.” 

“Hey,” says Desi. “Hey, I know I said -- Look. Sometimes, when you’ve got a guy like Parse on the team, all you gotta _do_ is not suck but we all wanna be better than that. We’re never gonna be as good as him but all of us. All these guys. We play out of our skins every night because that’s what he deserves, you know? Teammates who wanna be better.”

Gabriel nods slowly. “Yeah. I --” 

“Boys, what the fuck.” 

Speak of the devil and all of that. Now Gabriel is pinned in between Kent and Desi and this is the moment he’s overwhelmed. 

“Seriously. What the fuck. We crushed the Aeros and you guys are just hiding here? We need shots.” 

Gabriel lifts up his hand so Kent can see the stamp on the back of his hand and Kent just gives him this look. 

“You’re with us, kid. Gotta keep up.” 

Kent gestures and a waiter appears out of nowhere and takes an order that’s unintelligible to Gabriel but appears to be ‘all the shots, all of them’. 

When he sits back, Kent leans into him. “Good game tonight. More of that, yeah?”

“Sure thing, Cap.”

Kent doesn’t move for a long time, seemingly happy to sit next to Gabriel and Gabriel doesn’t even mind that Kent and Desi are talking over his head and, every so often, Gabriel can feel a gust of warm breath against his temple. 

♠

Kent’s phone buzzes the next morning and Purrson shouts at him from the doorway. They have the day off except for optional skate in the afternoon. 

Kent’s not hungover. It’s a little known fact that he carefully curates his alcohol intake when he goes out with the team. Oh, he has a good time and he gets plenty of attention from women and appreciate looks from some men (and he knows when and where to look). He can’t bear not being in control and he doesn’t know if that’s because of what happened with Zimms (to Zimms?) or because of Zimms, period. 

He fumbles for his phone and squints at the screen. There’s a message from Charbo and he doesn’t even remember giving him his number. Maybe he wasn’t as careful last night as he thought. The message reads _we’re here. what’s your eta?_ and Kent has never sat up so fast in his life. His head’s spinning. He made plans? With the rookie? 

He manages to hit dial and before Charbo even has the chance to speak. “What the fuck. Where are you? I’m still in bed --” He trails off when he realises that he can hear a lot of laughter. “What the fuck.” 

“Oh, oh, man.” He can hear Jeff in the background. “Fuck, why didn’t we record this? Nevermind. Still, best brunch ever.”

Charbo comes on the phone, sounding a bit breathless. “Sorry, Kent. I’d say it wasn’t my idea but --”

“Bull _shit_ ,” says Jeff. “It was all the rookie’s idea.”

“To make me think I’d forgotten brunch plans? You fuckers. You’re all fired.” Kent is still clutching his chest. “Wait, you fuckers are having brunch and didn’t invite me?” 

“We saved you a seat,” says Charbo. “We’re at Sunny Side Up.”

“Fuckers,” enunciates Kent clearly. “Order me their Protein Pack and I’ll be there in ten.” He glares at his phone and then shouts into it. “This is why I have trust issues, you bastards.”

He hangs up and Purrson stares at him, in silent judgement. “Fine. They’re not why I have trust issues.”

It’s closer to twenty minutes because he has to shower and do battle with his hair and one of these days, he’ll fucking buzz it right off. 

When he gets to the brunch place, parking his car as close as he can, he fixes his sunglasses and takes a few deep breaths. The kid wasn’t even kidding; there’s an empty seat next to him and he smiles sunnily up at Kent.

“We literally only decided to come here, like, forty minutes ago,” he says, his eyes wide and earnest and Kent realises that Charbo’s trying to be reassuring. It’s almost unbearable. 

“‘s okay, kid. I know what these fuckers are like.” 

“And yet, he loves us anyway,” says Jeff. 

“Fuck knows why. Now where’s my fucking coffee?”

Fuck knows why he loves these bastards but it’s another little known fact about Kent Parson: he can play the hockey robot for the post-game journos, and the mildly wild child for the local and national press, and he can be the loving son and devoted big brother, and he can be so many compartments, of Parse and of Kent and of Kenny and of the Captain of the Last Vegas Aces. 

All these compartments slot together, like jigsaw pieces, but he can also love so fucking deeply that he’ll forgive these bastards almost anything if they’ll keep playing hockey with him.

**Author's Note:**

> +The prank played by Charbo and the team on Parse is not even remotely my invention but comes from _that_ Tig Notaro sketch.


End file.
